


Zwischenzug

by RubraSaetaFictor



Series: The Morals of Chess [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Mummy being Mummy, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Knitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6749611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The zwischenzug (German: "intermediate move") is a chess tactic in which a player, instead of playing the expected move (commonly a recapture of the capturer of a piece that the opponent has just captured) first interposes another move, posing an immediate threat that the opponent must answer, then plays the expected move. Ideally, the zwischenzug changes the situation to the player's advantage, such as by gaining material or avoiding what would otherwise be a strong continuation for the opponent.</p><p>Such a move is also called an intermezzo, intermediate move, or in-between move. </p><p>A collection of drabbles in The Morals of Chess universe. Is there a story you want to see? Let me know in the comments and I'll see what I can do!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Mummy Finds Out

**Author's Note:**

> For maryagrawatson and LizCarroll2612, who asked me how Mummy would react when she finds out that she officially has a grandchild. Set after The Hedgehog Defense.

Mr. Holmes puttered into the kitchen with chocolate biscuits on his mind. The missus would give him grief for a between-meals snack, but cholesterol levels be damned, he wanted some McVitie’s.

He reached for the drawer in the sideboard and lifted the stack of linen that concealed his wife’s hidden stash of biscuits, pulled two from the sleeve, and took a bite.

Dark chocolate.

Not as good as milk in his opinion, but it would do in a pinch.

He was about to take a second bite, when the phone on the wall rang.

“Dear,” his wife’s voice rang out from the hallway, “can you get that, please?”

He grabbed a third biscuit and pushed all three into his trouser pocket before shutting the drawer and walking over to the phone.

“Holmes residence.”

“Ah, Father.”

“Who’s on the phone?” Mrs. Holmes called out.

“It’s Mycroft!” he yelled down the hall.

“Mycroft? It’s not Wednesday. What does he want?”

Mr. Holmes spoke into the receiver, “Your mother wants to know what you want.”

“To speak with her, actually. I have some news.”

He put one hand over the receiver and yelled, “He said he has some news for you.”

“News?” Mrs. Holmes bustled into the kitchen. “Something hasn’t happened to my boy again, has it?”

Mr. Holmes shrugged and handed over the phone and strolled out of the kitchen, pulling a biscuit from his pocket as soon as he was out of view. 

“Well,” Mrs. Holmes intoned, “what is it?”

“I thought you would be pleased to know that you’ve just become a grandmother.”

“I what?” Mrs. Holmes’ eyebrows raised in surprise, before knitting themselves in concern. “Mikey dear, are you certain that it’s yours?”

“What –“

“I mean, it _is_ their job to sleep about, and for a man in your position, it wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to take advantage –“

“Mother, stop. I have not impregnated a prostitute. What on earth would give you that idea?”

“Well, you’re never seeing anyone, not anyone you’ve told me about, in any case. If ever I even broach the subject, you say you’re far too busy to deal with relationships, and I know that men have needs –“

“No. I am not having this conversation, least of all with my mother. The child isn’t mine.”

“It’s Sherlock’s?! Oh, I had always hoped he’d settle down with a nice girl, and he’s been so good with John’s little one. Not that I’d know from Sherlock, but John sends me the occasional photo. It’s not that dark-haired woman from the papers, is it? Because some of the things she said about my boy--” 

“There is no woman.”

“I mean, she’s pretty enough, and if it _is_ hers, Sherlock should do the right thing  –“

“There is no woman!” There was a brief pause as Mycroft took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “There is no woman. Sherlock has adopted the Watson child. The paperwork was finalized this morning.”

“Little Rosie?!” Mrs. Holmes’ face lit up. “Oh, she’s such a dear! And my granddaughter. Rosamund Mary Holmes. Has a good ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Rosamund Watson-Holmes.”

“Did those boys get married too? I mean, they did have a way they looked at each other, didn’t they? I thought there might be something when John moved back in after his wife – well, a mother can always tell.  But to do it without telling me? For shame.”

“Just a moment ago you thought Sherlock should settle for a nice girl. But no, Sherlock did not get married.”

“He didn’t?”

“It is not a prerequisite for adoption.”

“Well, we can fix that.”

“Families come in all configurations, there’s nothing to fix.”

“I’ll talk to him all about it when I visit my granddaughter this weekend.”

“I don’t think he’ll be expecting visitors—“

Mrs. Holmes pressed her hand to her chest. “My _granddaughter_. I always wanted a girl.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed across the line, “I am beginning to understand why Sherlock asked me not to tell you about this, ever.”

“Nonsense, a girl needs her Grandmummy, especially with all those _men_ about.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to warn my brother.”

“Yes, yes, do whatever you need, _Uncle_ Mike.” Mrs. Holmes grinned from ear to ear, not hearing the click as the call disconnected. “Father dear,” she called toward the doorway, “get the car keys!”

Mr. Holmes poked his head back into the kitchen, his thumb checking for crumbs along the edge of his mouth. “Are we going out?”

“Yes, we’ll need to go to the shops immediately.” Mrs. Holmes pushed past her husband and went to put on her coat. “I have so much to do before Friday.” She pulled her coat over her shoulders with a happy little sigh. “Little Rosie, our granddaughter.”

Mr. Holmes stopped putting on his own coat. “Granddaughter?”

“Yes, Sherlock adopted John Watson’s daughter. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Mr. Holmes smiled to himself as he began buttoning his coat again.

“Now, where did I put my knitting needles?” Mrs. Holmes wondered.

Mr. Holmes patted his right pocket to check for his keys. “Knitting needles? I don’t think you’ve knit in over thirty years.”  No, no keys there.

“It’s like riding a bike. Besides, a granddaughter needs something made by her Grandmummy.”

Mr. Holmes patted his left pocket, no keys there either.

“Oh! You’ll have to decide what you’ll want her to call you!” Mrs. Holmes said as she pushed open the front door.

Mr. Holmes stopped his search, while he thought for a moment. “You know, I think I like Pop Pop,” Mr. Holmes said to his wife’s back as she crossed the yard.

Mr. Holmes spotted the keys on a side table and put them in his pocket, humming cheerfully as he headed toward the car.

 

~ _fin_


	2. When Mummy Meets Rosie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Mrs. Holmes knows she has a granddaughter, she HAS to visit, right?

John Watson pressed down the tabs of Rosie’s nappy and reached for the polka dot leggings at his daughter’s ankles.

Rosie smiled up at him from her spot on the sofa.

“Bum up,” John requested.

Rosie pushed her feet against the sofa, raising her bum, while John wiggled the leggings up over her pudgy thighs.  He picked her up by the waist and set her on her feet on the floor.

“Up?” Rosie asked, her arms upraised.

“Just a minute, I’ve got to deal with this stink bomb you left me,” John replied, folding the soiled nappy and wipes into a tidy packet and sealing it with the nappy’s plastic tabs.

“Up?”

John sighed. “Fine.” He reached down with one hand and scooped Rosie up into his arm, her legs automatically clasping his waist and her fine blonde curls tickling his chin. “Sherlock, would you mind taking this to the outside bin?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock didn’t look up from his laptop as he sat typing at the desk in the middle of the room.

“It’ll make the kitchen smell if we throw it away in here.”

“Okay.” Sherlock continued typing.

“Not okay, Sherlock.” John held out the nappy packet, but seeing no motion to relieve him of his burden, he dropped his arm. “Fine, we’ll take it out back. Come on, Rosie.”

John began to turn back toward the sofa, shifting Rosie’s weight on his hip, when he stopped suddenly facing the window, and walked closer to get a better look. “What time did you say your parents were coming over?”

“Eleven.”

“You sure?”

“My mother confirmed it yesterday in a long and rather rambling phone call.” Sherlock’s head suddenly snapped up. “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s your mother getting out a cab.”

“She’s hours early!” Sherlock shut the lid of his laptop and jumped up out his chair. “Get away from the window!”

“What?” John asked, taking an unconscious step backward.

“Get away from the window.” Sherlock hissed, his voice a loud whisper.

John took another step backward, and whispered himself, “Why?”

“Because they’ll see you!”

“Oh for god’s sake,” John sighed, his voice at a normal level. He stepped back toward the window and looked out. “It’s just your parents.”

“Yes, my mother, who will burst in the door and start to give everything that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says I’m doing it all wrong. ‘What a lovely set of fireplace tools. Very accessible, should you need them.’ ‘Rosie must keep you so busy you haven’t any time to clean, can I help tidy up your kitchen a bit?’”

“Anyone offers to tidy the kitchen, I’m taking them up on it.”

“She won’t be doing it to be _nice_ , John.”

“Please, I’m sure you’re blowing it all out of proportion.” John looked back out the window, nodding his head and waving, seemingly responding to a similar motion down on the street. “It’s not like they’re coming simply to judge you.”

“Yes, good idea. Distract them. It’ll give me a chance to gather our things.” Sherlock strode over to the doorway and grabbed a well-worn leather satchel and began shoving items into it: the case of wipes from by the sofa, a stuffed dog.

“Your parents aren’t planning on staying here, are they?”

Sherlock began crawling on his hands and knees, peering under the sofa. “No. Of course not. Why would they think that? We’ve nowhere to put them.”

John continued looking out the window, shifting Rosie to his other side. “It’s just that they’re unloading an awful lot of bags.” John looked back at Sherlock, who scrambling under his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the purple sippy cup. It’s her favourite.”

“Now?”

“We’ve only got moments to get to the fire escape before they make it up here. You don’t mind wearing those clothes for a few days, do you? Of course you don’t.”

John put Rosie down on the ground. She sat down, reached under the coffee table and grabbed a purple cup and began sucking, watching her parents with amusement above her. “Sherlock, there is a time and a place for running away down the fire escape. Your parents wanting to meet their granddaughter is not one of them.”

Sherlock stopped his search and picked up Rosie. Plopping down on the sofa, the satchel slid off his shoulder unto the cushions, as he sighed, “Four days.”

“What?”

“I didn’t even get a full week. Mycroft told her the day it happened, even though I told him not to, ever.”

“You weren’t seriously considering not telling your parents you adopted a child.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Were you?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Sherlock!”

Rosie offered her Pata her sippy cup, which he took mindlessly. “Oh, I would have. Eventually. I just wanted to have some time to just enjoy being Rosie’s father before the rest of the world got in on it.”

John looked at the diaper still in his hand and set it on the table. “Sherlock--”

A firm knock rang out on the door and both men looked at its source.

“Look, I can run interference if need be,” John said quietly as he picked the nappy back up and ran it to the kitchen bin “Let Rosie enjoy having grandparents and if your Mum’s about to drive you crazy, Vatican Cameos me or something.”

“That’s for life-threatening emergencies only!”

“Then pick a different word,” John hissed, crossing to the door to amidst another round of knocks. “Coming!”

“Applesauce.”

“Fine!” John pulled open the door, a smile on his face. “Hullo!”

Mrs. Holmes hardly waited for the door to open all the way, before pushing her way through, the large tote bag over her shoulder knocking into John on the way past. “Hullo, John! Now where’s my little girl?”

John rubbed the spot on his stomach where the bag hit. “On the sofa with Sherlock, what have you got in there, pokers?”

Mrs. Holmes had already settled herself on the sofa and was pulling Rosie from a reluctant Sherlock’s arms. “Oh, just some knitting needles. My girl needs a hand-knitted jumper, doesn’t she?” She turned her attention to Rosie. “Hullo, darling. I’m your Grandmummy. Can you say Grandmummy?”

Mrs. Holmes repeated her name to Rosie as John turned his attention back to the door. “Can I help with those?” John asked the man buried under an armload of shopping bags.

“Been waiting 20 years to shop for a grandchild, she said,” Mr. Holmes said jovially, handing a bag to John. “Made up for it in a few days.”

John peered into the top of one of the bags. “Well, thank you. Don’t know where we’ll put it all.”

“Cab driver said the same thing,” said Mr. Holmes with a smile.

“I guess we’ll throw them in the bedroom for now.  This way.”

A few minutes later, divested themselves of a miniature wardrobe, John and Mr. Holmes wandered back to the sitting room to find that Grandmummy had divested Sherlock of his daughter and was now cooing directly in her face.

“What lovely curls you have, Rosie. Oh, how I adore the little baby curls,” Mrs. Holmes looked up at her son, “Take care you don’t cut them. So often they don’t grow back. Your father took Mycroft to the barber as toddler, and well…I never forgave him.”

“John, don’t you think Rosie could use some applesauce?” Sherlock intoned across the room.

“Bit early don’t you think?” John replied stoically, crossing his arms.

“Nonsense!” interjected Mrs. Holmes, “Little ones need to eat, they've got a lot of growing to do! Don’t you?”

Sherlock gestured toward his mother, “Can’t argue with a grandmother, John.”

John smiled at Mrs. Holmes. “Would you care to help me feed Rosie in the kitchen?”

Mrs. Holmes pressed Rosie to her chest and pushed herself off the sofa. “Are you boys thinking about getting a bigger apartment? It seems like there’s hardly any space here for three, let alone all these things…”

Mr. Holmes walked over to the sofa and sat down next to his son, who was watching in a combination of horror and relief as his mother schooled John on the proper type of applesauce.

Seeing no immediate need to start a conversation, Mr. Holmes closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushions, content.

“You’re humming, Dad.”

Mr. Holmes’ eye popped open. “Was I? Drives your mother nuts, that.” He watched his son watching his daughter. “It suits you.”

“What was that?”

“Being a father. You look just like the good dads do when they hand their children off to someone new. Mothers seem to think they’ve got the market cornered on over-protection, but fathers know that’s not true.”

Sherlock laughed. “You were hardly overprotective. You let Mycroft and I do whatever we wanted.”

“What else could I do? I never had a chance. Mycroft, never had to worry about him, and I knew he’d keep an eye on you. Didn’t mean I didn’t worry though.”

“Any advice?”

Mr. Holmes looked a tad surprised. “You’re asking?”

“You, yes.” He looked over at Rosie. “I never feel like I know what I’m doing.”

“Can’t really help you there.  I never did know what I was doing either.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sank into the cushions.

“You love her?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll be just fine.” Mr. Holmes patted his son’s leg and then closed his eyes and began humming again.

“Thanks, Dad.”

There was the briefest pause in the hum as Mr. Holmes smiled a little, never opening his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Out like a light,” John said as he made his way down the stairs from the upper bedroom. “Fell asleep the moment her head hit the bed.”

“I find a full day with my mother similarly exhausting. Your tea’s on the table.”

John turned and picked up the mug and took a sip, before walking into the sitting room.

“Sherlock, are you – is, that knitting?”

Sherlock continued to peer at the sticks and string in front of him. “Obviously.”

John sat down in his chair. “Since when do you knit?”

“When did Rosie go down for her morning nap?”

“About 10.”

“Then I have knit since 10:15. It’s a highly repetitive motion, John, not all that difficult to learn. I simply watched my mother knit during Rosie’s nap and have replicated the motions.“

“Learning’s one thing, mastering is clearly another. That looks bloody awful.” John took a sip, and a thought occurred to him. “Where did you get the wool?”

“Mummy had a bag full of it, I doubt she’ll miss a few balls.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“She’s old, she’ll just think she misplaced it.”

“You truly are the most generous of souls,” John chuckled. “Why do you suddenly want to knit anyway? It’s not as if we need more sharp pointy things around the house.”

“Mummy said every child needs a hand-knit jumper, therefore I am going to provide her with one.”

John held his cup of tea. “First off, they don’t. I never had a hand-knit sweater in my life and I turned out just fine.”

Sherlock looked up from his knitting to raise an eyebrow.

“I did, “ John said firmly, “And secondly, you are not required to provide for Rosie’s every need. That’s what me and our friends, and, yes, even her grandparents are for. Ever heard the saying ‘It takes a village’?”

Sherlock reached the end of a row and turned the needles awkwardly in his hands. He began knitting the next row, slowly, but somehow smugly.

“When I’m done with Rosie’s, I can knit you a jumper. Perhaps given some time, you may be able to turn out okay yet.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to get a lot better before I’d even think about wearing something you made.”

“Just a matter of time.”

“I give you a week before you’re bored with this.”

Sherlock frowned as he dropped a stitch.

“I take that back, three days,” John said as he leaned back to watch the show.

Sherlock pointed the needle down to pick up the dropped stitch, managing to drop two more in the process.

“18 hours.”

“Not helping.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Not trying to,’ John smiled.

 

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For maryagrawatson, ijust and LizCarroll2612, who wanted to see Sherlock's reaction to Grandmummy descending in full force, and for JukenMetel who asked for Sherlock knitting. As a knitter myself, I couldn't refuse. 
> 
> I'm working my way back into this universe after long break (and if you haven't read The Adventure of the Grey Messenger, my collaboration with JolieBlack, do it!). So more stories to come!


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